"Then he said nothing when he was going away?"
"Nothing at all; they ran off to escape their debts, that's all."
"But he surely sends someone to get his mail."
"More frequently than I send it. He never got more than ten letters a
year. I took one up to them, however, two days before they left."
That was probably her letter. She said abruptly: "Listen! I am his
mother, his own mother, and I have come to look for him. Here are ten
francs for you. If you can get any news or any particulars about him,
come and see me at the Hotel Normandie, Rue du Havre, and I will pay
you well."
"You may count on me, madame," he replied.
She left him and began to walk away without caring whither she went.
She hurried along as though she were on some important business,
knocking up against people with packages, crossing the streets without
paying attention to the approaching vehicles, and being sworn at by
the drivers, stumbling on the curb of the sidewalk, and tearing along
straight ahead in utter despair.
All at once she found herself in a garden, and was so tired that she
sat down on a bench to rest. She stayed there some time apparently,
weeping without being conscious of it, for passersby stopped to look
at her. Then she felt very cold, and rose to go on her way; but her
legs would scarcely carry her, she was so weak and distressed.
She wanted to go into a restaurant and get a cup of bouillon, but a
sort of shame, of fear, of modesty at her grief being observed held
her back. She would pause at the door, look in, see all the people
sitting at table eating, and would turn away, saying: "I will go into
the next one." But she had not the courage.
Finally she went into a bakery and bought a crescent and ate it as she
walked along. She was very thirsty, but did not know where to go to
get something to drink, so did without it.